Saved by Zero
by darcyfarrow
Summary: "How come they call you Cutter?" "What do you want to know that for?" She leaned in. "Because it's hardly a nickname for someone named Baelfire. I know who you are. I want you to know who I am." "You're some kind of cop, or a sicko." He twisted his arm, trying to pull away, but she pulled him in farther. "My name is Rumplestiltskin." Mayor Belle.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: While Rumpie and her family are mine, Rumplestiltskin, Regina and Baelfire are the creations of Eddie Kitsis and Adam Horowitz, the OUAT writers and the amazing Robert Carlyle, Lana Parilla and Dylan Schmid.**

**A/N:**This story was originally titled "Ace in the Hole," until I discovered that there are a whole lot of Fanfiction stories with the same title. So I chose what I thought would be a unique title, only to discover there are also some "Saved by Zero" stories! Go figure.

After writing this story, I learned that Wamego, Kansas, is home to the Wizard of Oz Museum and annual festival. I'm not an Oz fan myself, but I think Rumpie is.

Thanks to everyone who's read this story, and especially to those who commented upon it.

Noamg, in answer to your questions: A loophole in Rumple and Regina's agreement allows Rumple to sneak his namesake and her family into other cities. I've revised that paragraph to make the point clearer.

About Gold remembering his FTL past, Horowitz and Kitsis said in a Live Facebook interview that until Emma arrived in SB, Gold didn't remember, so I stuck to that.

* * *

**Saved by Zero**

**Chapter 1: Rumplestiltskin**

She played a wicked game. Cunning and unpredictable, her moves were; she enjoyed taking reckless risks even more than she enjoyed winning. But she was young and life had yet to test her. As she checked his king, he leaned back in the thickly cushioned chair, the one the family now considered his chair, and watched her from the corner of his eye.

"You're distracted tonight," Rumpie commented. She stood, stretched, and stepped over her baby to reach the sideboard, where she refilled his tankard of mead, then her own. She arranged a triangle of petit fours on a plate and brought it to him, helping herself to one of the treats before she returned to her rocking chair.

"Yes," Rumplestiltskin admitted.

"Shall we talk a while, then, 'of castles and kings and things'?"

He wished it were winter; he longed for a fire to stare at. But summer had arrived, its sounds and scents spilling in through the open windows of Rumpie's elegant home. As always, they were seated in the baby's room, a chess board between them. Laughter rolled in through the window; on the lawn, Rumpie's husband Leofwin and her firstborn, Rumplestiltskin X, chased fireflies. On the rug at her mother's feet, the baby stacked brightly colored wooden blocks.

"He will be seven next week," Rumplestiltskin observed, referring to the boy playing outside.

She beamed. "You always remember."

"It would be bad luck to forget the birthday of one's namesake, dearie. Or at the least, bad manners."

Rumpie settled back into her chair with a sigh. "Seven." She sipped her mead. "And seven years since our first game." She raised her tankard in a salute to him. "Thank you for coming out of the shadows."

He ducked his head in embarrassment. "Entirely selfish on my part, I assure you."

Her eyes widened a bit as a thought occurred to her, but she left it unspoken. Everyone knew that the Dark One lived alone in a castle set far apart from the rest of the world. Everyone knew he kept it barred and bolted, as he did his heart, if he could be said to have one at all, and he emerged only long enough to trick some desperate soul before sealing himself in again. Only the two in this room and the two on the lawn outside knew that every once in a while, the need for a challenging game of chess drove him to seek the company of this young family.

And certainly that was the only reason he came.

"Rumpie."

She sat up a little straighter. He seldom used her nickname, preferring to address her as "dearie" or "child," as he did her children. She in turn addressed him only by his full name, a sign of respect.

His voice, so burdened with sarcasm in the first years of their acquaintanceship, had changed as he came to know her and her family, and now it sounded almost kind. "You and Leofwin and Ten know who I am, what I can do. Yet none of you has ever asked me for more than a game of chess or some stories of my travels. Why? Why have you not asked for magic?"

She thought about that a moment, then shrugged. "We make our own way in life."

"But there could be more. Not even Ten"—this was the family's nickname for Rumplestiltskin X—"has asked for so much as a flying pony."

Her face clouded. "I would be ashamed if he did."

"It is not uncommon for the fairies to select families to patronize. Why should your family not have a patron as well?"

"We don't want to be patronized. Rumplestiltskin, I'm insulted you would suggest such a thing!" Rumpie spat the word out. "A patron! The very idea!"

He laid a hand across his chest in a gesture of humility. "I apologize."

They sat in silence for a few moments, until the baby, babbling to herself on the rug, decided the time had come to take her first literal step: with both hands she grasped the nearest graspable thing—Rumplestiltskin's pants leg—and, shifting her weight until she found balance, hauled herself to her feet.

Rumplestiltskin's heart broke. . .though he certainly would never have admitted he possessed such an organ.

Rumpie leapt up, gasping, staring, then ran to the window and yelled, "Leofwin! Ten! Amiria is walking! Come and see!" She rushed back to the center of the room, dragging the chess table out of the baby's way. Perplexed, Amiria stared at her mother. The baby's bottom swayed precariously but she kept a tight grip on the imp's pants leg, until the shouts of her brother and her father as they stormed into the house and tore up the stairs distracted her. She teetered, wobbled, then gave up and plopped down to the rug. By the time the rest of the family had arrived, she had forgotten her great adventure and had gone back to stacking her blocks.

Leofwin groaned with mild disappointment at having missed the spectacle. Ten, however, quickly lost interest in his sister and sought some attention for himself. "Look!" He held a glass tube high for all to see—the tube was one of a set that had been left as a gift at his bedside last year, on the fourth day of the first month after harvest. Inside the tube a glowing insect crawled. "It's a firefly." He leaned over Rumplestiltskin's chair, holding the tube close to the imp's nose. "Did you ever see a firefly, Rumplestiltskin?"

"I have. Fascinating creatures, aren't they? They appear to be charged with power."

"You're done with your game?" Leofwin asked. "Shall we go downstairs? Cook should have dinner on the table about now."

Rumplestiltskin seldom stayed for dinner. It made him uncomfortable, as though he were being treated as family, an old bachelor uncle perhaps, instead of the Feared One, the Master of Dark Magic. Or so he said.

But it also made him remember Bae and Belle, which he didn't say.

Tonight had to be different, however. He had instruction to provide. When the meal had been cleared away, the children put to bed, and the cook sent to her quarters for the night, the adults gathered in the parlor. In the lantern-light Leofwin shared gossip he'd heard in the village today: Prince Thomas and Princess Ella were expecting a child.

After the husband and wife had chewed over this tidbit, Leofwin grinned at their visitor. "What news do you bring from the rest of the world?"

Rumplestiltskin's gaze dropped to the wooden floor. He said nothing.

Their expressions fell. "It's bad, isn't it?" Rumpie said lowly. Leofwin instinctively grasped her hand.

"A time of great sorrow is coming, and great loss. But the time will pass, I promise, and when it has, we will know freedom at last."

The husband and the wife fell silent in shock.

Rumplestiltskin couldn't meet their eyes as he continued, "The end to all we have here and all we know is soon at hand. A curse will be unleashed; the world will exist no more."

"Are we going to die?" Rumpie's voice shook. "The children—"

"No, they will live; we all will live, but we will be removed from our lives."

"Don't speak in riddles," Leofwin demanded. "Tell us plainly."

"All of us will be transported to another world, one in which there is no magic. No fairies, no witches, no Dark One." Rumplestiltskin's eyes blazed.

"The curse to end all curses," Rumpie breathed. "I grew up hearing the stories of it, but everyone said it was impossible."

Her husband shrugged. "How is this bad? For those of us who never had magic, it will be a blessing to be released from the power of those who do." Then he remembered to whom he was speaking. "I don't mean to offend, but—"

"Magic steals from those who have it as well as those who wish they had it."

"We will be free, then," Leofwin smiled.

"Free from the tyranny of magic, yes, but adrift from our selves. None of us will remember our lives here."

Rumpie blanched. "Each other? We will not know each other? The children?" She buried her face in her hands and sobbed. "We won't know our own children?"

Leofwin leapt to his feet. "This has to be stopped! No one takes my children from me! Who casts this curse? I'll kill him; that will settle it; I'll kill him now!"

"She who casts the curse is beyond your reach."

"Who would do such a thing?" Rumpie cried. "Who would destroy our families, tear us from our husbands, our children? Why?"

"He who created the curse is within your reach."

Leofwin started to pace, his hand on his hip, searching for a weapon that he never carried. "I'll kill him then. That will put an end to it—won't it?" But Rumplestiltskin shook his head and Leofwin groaned.

Rumpie stopped sobbing. In a dead voice she breathed, "You."

"I created the curse."

"To—destroy us?" Leofwin stopped his pacing.

"I paid no heed to anyone else. An unfortunate but necessary consequence, I thought. Families would be torn asunder, but my son would be returned to me."

"I don't understand and I don't want to," Leofwin said. "If you created it, you can stop it."

"The curse cannot be stopped."

"We thought of you as a friend," Rumpie said. "As family. Why have you destroyed us?"

"For my child. Everything for my child." He explained to them how the dark power had come to him, and the price he had paid in the loss of his own soul—and the loss of Bae.

He gave them the truth of his own complicity in the crimes he had fallen victim to. He didn't ask forgiveness; he didn't want to be forgiven. Their shock became anger became rage, and he accepted it all as his due.

"You say we'll remember nothing," Rumpie stood over him, shaking. "But so help me, I will never forget you took my husband and my children from me. I will never forget I hate you."

"You must put aside your hatred long enough to hear me a moment longer," the imp insisted. "There is something you must do; it could give you a chance to find each other again in the new world."

"And why should we believe you when you—" But Leofwin set a staying hand on his wife's shoulder and she shrank under his touch, burying her face in his chest.

"Tell us," Leofwin urged. "If there is a way, we will do it."

Rumplestiltskin snapped his fingers and a leather-bound book appeared, floating in mid-air. He drew it down, ran his hand across the cover.

"This is the book I wrote for you," she said.

"Keep it with you every moment. Don't let it out of your sight. If it is in your hands when the curse strikes, you will have it when you awake in the new world."

"What good will it do, when I won't know who I am? When I won't know my husband and my children?"

"There is some time, a few weeks perhaps. Use the time to write your children's stories in this book. When you arrive in the new world, the stories in this book will pursue you."

At last a glimmer of hope lit her eyes. "I'll draw pictures of the children."

Rumplestiltskin nodded. He opened the book to a blank page. To Leofwin he requested, "Give me your hand."

With some hesitation the young man opened his palm to find that the ends of every finger were damp with black ink. Rumplestiltskin seized the young man's wrist and turned the hand palm down, pressing the fingers upon the empty page. When he released Leofwin's wrist, a black impression of the fingers appeared on the page.

"What is this?"

"This will help you to know each other. Now you, dearie." He created an impression of Rumpie's hand on the page beside her husband's. "You must do the same for the children. One is coming who will break the curse, and then we all will remember. This book will help you find each other, once you remember who you are."

When the ink had dried, he closed the book and lay both his hands on the cover. In a voice so low Rumpie couldn't hear, he spoke some words; his hands glowed, then the book glowed. When the energy dissipated, he explained, "A blessing. I don't know that it will help, but if this book can retain just a shadow of the magic it now holds. . . " He shrugged.

He turned the pages to a portrait, painted in rich colors, of a dark-haired boy with piercing, honest eyes. "I destroyed your family to save my own. I'll carry your hatred into the next world as a personal curse. But let the lineage of that curse end with me. This is Baelfire. He is fourteen and knew nothing of the world he was sent to. If he lives still, he is alone. Through some linguistic acrobatics, I will arrange for you and your family to be sent, not to the facade the rest of us will be trapped in, but into the real world. You will be free. It's a vast land full of souls, and I am asking the impossible, but if somehow. . . if this book retains a shred of its magic. . . " He shook his head in frustration.

Rumpie suggested gently, "Ask us. We won't deny you."

Rumplestiltskin ran his hand across the book one last time, and then he took the leap, doing something he'd never done, in all his years as the Dark One: he asked for help. "Find him if you can, look after him?"

Rumpie touched the portrait. "If I can, I'll tell him his father is looking for him—and loves him."

* * *

Rumpie and her servants were hanging the wash when a thundercloud suddenly appeared and a sheet of rain fell straight down upon the clothesline. The servants scrambled to gather the wash and carry it inside, but Rumpie, shielding her eyes from the rain, studied the strange sky: except for the single cloud hovering above her clothesline, the rest of the sky was sunny. Rain fell on no home besides hers.

"All right, I'm alone now," she called, and Rumplestiltskin appeared behind her holding an umbrella. She came under its shelter. "I would admire your very fine joke, but—"

He nodded. "It's time." The irises of his eyes, normally large and giving the illusion of innocence, had shrunk. His whole body seemed to have shrunk, collapsing in on itself.

"You can stop it." Rumpie struck his chest with her fist. "Do something to the Queen—send a dragon after her, send a tornado to sweep her up and whisk her away. You can stop this."

"But I won't."

"Don't take my babies away from me." She lost her fortitude and crumpled into his arms. The rain continued to fall, as if he had forgotten to shut it off.

He released the umbrella to hold her; the umbrella floated overhead, making small adjustments in its position to coincide with wind movements. "You will find them again, I promise." He tilted his head to catch her eye. "Your lineage has many generations to go yet."

"Your magic will bring them back to me?"

"No. Yours will." He waved a hand and the umbrella and the rain disappeared. "In a few days you will hear reports that I have been captured, rendered powerless. The reports will be true. The prison they have prepared for me radiates with fairy magic so strong I will be defenseless against it."

Rumpie snorted. "Fairies! Nasty, supercilious, sanctimonious, prevaricating, nasty little bugs in high heels!"

"Aye, fairies. Charming—" he corrected himself, his voice bitter—"that is, the King will declare a feast to celebrate the capture of 'the scourge.' Queen Snow will announce her pregnancy. And when all that happens, child, it will be time for you and Leofwin to cling to each other and the book as tight as you can, because soon thereafter Regina will return and the curse will be unleashed."

A new thought occurred to her. "What will happen to you?"

"Like everyone else, I will be removed to the new land. I will remember nothing until the day the savior arrives." Rumplestiltskin squeezed her shoulders. "And she _will_ arrive, I promise you, and she will break the curse and all of us will be free."

"And Leofwin and I will find each other—"

"And remember."

"And you will find Baelfire."

"And remember."

"Rumplestiltskin. . . will Baelfire remember you?"

The imp studied the bright blue sky. "You best finish your laundry now, dearie." He raised his hand, summoning the magic to take him away, but she grasped his sleeve.

"Rumplestiltskin! Will we see you again? Ever?"

He thought for a moment, then gave a reply he hadn't used in centuries: "I don't know."

* * *

Ella and Charming conned Rumplestiltskin, as planned, but the magic exacted a price: Thomas vanished. Charming's royal guards dumped him into a former fairy dust mine, now converted to a prison for a single occupant, as planned. Charming stared at him silently for several minutes before walking away. Charming the duplicitous, Charming the betrayer. After all Rumple had done to ensure this boy's union with Snow White.

Then, as might be expected, the guards gathered around and stared, careful to remain an arm's length away from the bars. They wanted a show, so he gave them one, rushing at the bars, shrieking, thrashing his body about; they laughed at the madman, and one of them tossed a bucket of slops at him, and they laughed harder. He shouted threats to them, addressing them by name, and two of them ran off, having heard the legend that by knowing one's name, Rumplestiltskin gained possession over one's soul. The sergeant of the guards decided to exert his authority by chunking rocks at the prisoner. His eyes enlarged, Rumple pointed a bony finger at the sergeant, who suddenly remembered an urgent report that had to be filed and beat a hasty retreat.

He amazed the rest of them then—and surprised himself—by climbing the bars, finding finger- and toe-holds in the ceiling, and hanging upside down like a bat. More of them backed off, concerned they'd been mislead about the power of faint veins of fairy dust to dampen Dark magic.

He continued to hang like that until, bored, the remaining guards gave up and walked away. He then dropped to the floor and limped to the "bed" with which they had furnished the cell: a raised slab of stone.

Testing the fairy dust's strength, he raised his hands and ordered his magic forth. His hands tingled, and for just a moment he felt normal, but then the tingling dissipated and his hands grew cold. His head ached.

He stripped down and washed as best he could with the bucket of water they had provided, then dressed and stretched out on the cold stone.

He was too old for such antics.

* * *

The sergeant of the guards remembered at last to bring the prisoner some food—cold meatless stew, stale bread, a mug of weak lager—and a fresh bucket of water. Rumple said nothing but stared at them intently as the sergeant, whip at the ready, opened the cell long enough to allow an underling to enter, drop the plate and the bowl and the bucket on the ground, and back out hastily. Just as a reminder of their positions, the sergeant slashed out three times with his whip. The first slash cut Rumple's cheek; the others tore his shirt. The sergeant chuckled, locked the cell again and spun on his heel.

When they had gone, Rumple touched his bleeding cheek. With a frown he pulled his hand away, wondering why the injury persisted, and then he remembered his magic had been suppressed; he could no longer heal himself. He washed the cuts and lay down again, too discouraged to bother with the food.

* * *

Charming hadn't come back. Apparently the reports he was receiving from the sergeant of the guard satisfied him that the prisoner was well under control.

The food came more frequently, but no better.

He'd expected this—he'd orchestrated this—all of it part of the plan, all of it bringing him closer to Bae. But he'd been the Dark One a long, long time and had forgotten what physical pain felt like. He had forgotten what boredom and humiliation felt like.

Loneliness, though, he'd never forgotten.

* * *

Showtime.

His ears burned and his hands tingled: the magic, waking and raising its head weakly like a mewling newborn kitten, was signaling him of a summons. Not that he needed magic to figure out that, since Regina had yet to activate the curse, she would be back for further instruction. From the darkness of his cavernous prison cell, he put the crazy on for her, fluttering his fingers, sing-songing his welcome, giggling like a madman. Regina needed to be pushed back, even more so than all the others: the crazier she thought him to be, the more powerful she would assume him to be. He teased her a little, letting it slip that Charming and Snow had paid him an information-seeking visit too. Ah, the imagination that woman lacked. He took advantage of it, dangling a carrot in front of her only to jerk it away by revealing a prediction of the Curse Breaker's coming.

She asked his price for another lesson in curse creation. In his anxiousness to see the curse enacted, he had momentarily forgotten he was supposed to make trades for information, but her reminder set him back in line. As his answer formed in his head, for a moment his face revealed his pain: _I want Bae returned to me._But he'd been the Dark One a long, long time, and he knew better than to reveal such precious information to Regina. As far as she knew, he had loved only one in his lifetime, and Regina had taken great pleasure in watching him disintegrate when she had reported the death of that loved one. Let her continue to think Belle had been Rumplestiltskin's only link to humanity.

So he asked for the obvious—wealth—and in her lack of imagination she expected this answer and was satisfied. But the trickster in him required one last prank, as it well might be his last chance for a joke in this world: in return for instruction, she would have to agree that in the new world, if he made a request of her using the word "please," she would fulfill that request without question. Just a joke, initially, but later he realized it had been a lucky break.

She agreed, assuming that because the curse would obliterate his memory, the "please" clause was moot. If he were completely honest with her, his first lesson would have included a rule: "Assume nothing when dealing with one whose imagination exceeds your own." But then, if he were completely honest with her, he would never have allowed her to think the curse would make her happy.

He provided the answers she sought; the curse would be enacted. Tonight he would lie down on a stone bed in this musty cell, but soon, he would awaken in luxury, a new man.

A man, not an imp. A man living at last in the same land as his son.

* * *

He awoke in the dawn to a hiss that sounded remarkably like his name being spoken. He found, weaving itself in and out of the bars of his cell, a mud-colored snake, whom he greeted with a yawn. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

The snake reared its head as if to strike but instead transformed into Regina.

"Back so soon?" He flew at the bars of his cell, thrusting his face at her, twisting his features in the most hideous fashion, and growling, "Have you turned coward, Your Majesty? Couldn't bring yourself to extricate the heart of dear old papa?"

She thrust her face right back at him, her eyes wild, her teeth flashing. In that moment he doubted her sanity, but he was too practiced a showman to reveal his shaken confidence. "Oh, I've done the deed, all right," she sneered. "I have the heart and I shall perform the ceremony at midnight, three days from now. After my father's funeral."

He was slightly taken aback by this news, but he wouldn't let her see that. "And you've come to me for a pat on the head, I suppose."

She laughed. "I've done what you couldn't. Do you think I care for the approval of a coward?"

"Then why have you disturbed my sleep?"

"The work!" She threw her hands into the air. "There's so damn much work to this curse!"

"Surely you're not so naïve as to expect you could simply rip out Papa's heart and then lie back on your chaise lounge waiting for the new world to arrive at your doorstep? Of course there's work! Decisions to make! Plans to draw up! Details upon details!"

"I haven't time for all this. I have a state funeral to arrange. Do you know how time-consuming a state funeral is?"

"You must create identities and false memories for every soul in your kingdom. Well, you can't have them just standing around vacant-headed, now can you? Where would be the suffering in that? You must give them new, miserable lives."

"I've done that, for the ones that matter."

"And you've fulfilled your obligation to me, I presume?"

"Don't worry about it. You'll have everything I promised; I already wrote it into the curse." She sighed wearily. "I wasted two hours on you. But the rest of it—"

"And the village itself. Have you thought of that? Will you design an entire village, set apart from the rest in the new world, or will you. . . appropriate an existing village?"

"Oh who has time for such trivialities!"

"You must make the time, Your Majesty. Now, if you'd like my recommendation, I would start fresh; stealing someone else's village would require a war, and who has the time for that?"

"You do it." She threw her hands into the air. "You're just sitting around all day anyway; you design the village. Show me your plans tomorrow." She flicked her hand a stack of scrolls and a quill appeared on his stone bed.

"I shall take on this laborious task, but it'll cost you."

She squinted at him through the spikes that served as bars to his cell. "What are you thinking _now_, you insane imp?"

"Have you tried sleeping on a stone bed? Eating nothing but stale bread and cold stew twice a day?" He crossed his arms. "Hardly appropriate treatment for the most powerful and feared man in all the land."

"Is that all?" She waved her hand and the stone bed disappeared in a cloud of purple; when the smoke dissipated, a canopied bed stood in the place of the stone one. A wingback chair stood in one corner, and a dining table, already spread with a five-course meal, appeared in the other.

"But you must cast a spell on my guards, so they won't see my new provisions."

"Of course. Do you think I just fell off the turnip cart?"

"And light. I require light to work on these plans."

A candelabra appeared on the dining table.

He wrinkled his nose. "And a change of clothes. These are rather stale."

She thrust her hands on her hips. "Anything else? I suppose next you'll want a madrigal choir to sing you to sleep."

"Now that would be a nice touch."

* * *

Regina appeared again, this time as a black widow spider dangling from a web attached to the ceiling—and well out of reach. He chuckled and complimented her choice in arachnids. "Yes, I thought it quite appropriate, considering," she answered; her voice reminded him of a cat preening itself—and then he remembered he rather liked cats, so he gave up that metaphor.

"There's a. . .slight complication," she admitted.

"Must I solve all your problems for you? I have a list to complete, as you may recall: three hundred souls who need identities." He no longer could make things appear by magic, but he still had a few ordinary sleight-of-hand tricks he could fall back on, so with a flick of his wrist he produced a thick scroll. "Unlike you, I have the focus required to see a task through to its completion. My list is nearly complete. You may admire it at your leisure or simply thank me now in the knowledge that it is a most creative and well-thought-out plan."

She snatched the scroll and gave it a quick glance, mumbling her way through the first half-dozen names. "Radegund, wife of Burchard: baker. Clothild, daughter of Burchard: laundress. Burchard: builder. Leofwin: enforcer of laws. Rumpie, wife of Leofwin: keeper of books. Hildebald: grower. Hiltrude—" She thrust the scroll back at him. "Inconsequentials. What do I care? I know none of these people. Finish it and I will return for it in the morning. Now, we will discuss _my_ problem."

With a small, satisfied smile, Rumplestiltskin neatly re-rolled the scroll, smoothing his features as he smoothed the parchment. "I'm listening."

The witch began to pace, her black crinoline skirt flaring. "It's Maleficent."

"Ah. I presume you don't want to simply eliminate her."

"Of course not." Regina raised her chin. "She's a friend." She added in a mutter, "My only friend."

"I see." Rumplestiltskin sat on the edge of his canopied bed. He crossed his legs and thought a moment. "Find a realm jumper, send her. . . send her to Wonderland. Let her ask sanctuary from the Red Queen."

Regina hooted. "Oooh no. Put those two together? Don't be ridiculous." She resumed her pacing. "If she behaves, I may find use for her. If not—"

"You want her where no one else may use her." He thought some more, then the irises of his eyes expanded. "Maleficent takes great pride in her shape-shifting. I have often heard her claim her superiority in that regard."

Regina snorted. "I swear the woman spends half of her day prancing around as a dragon."

"Precisely. Suppose a clever minion of yours paid her a visit, just before midnight, two days hence, and asked her to demonstrate her great power."

"Yeeees," Regina hissed, halting her march across the cavern. "Whatever form she's in when the curse strikes, she will be stuck in forever—"

"—because she will have been transported to a land without magic."

"I like it." She ran a hand through her hair. "A perfect punishment for the showoff."

Regina flicked a hand, preparing to exit by means of magic. "Oh. I'll send one of my minions around in the morning for those plans."

"Ah-ah-ah," he corrected. "You really must get used to leaving a room in the traditional way. Remember, in two days, you will surrender your magic."

"It will be worth it, to watch Snow suffer for the rest of eternity." With a flick of her wrist she was gone.

* * *

But it was Regina herself who appeared at his cell in the morning. "It happens tonight. One more small problem."

"Yes?" Rumple set aside his breakfast, a bowl of exotic fruit—that had started out as a bowl of gruel provided by his guard.

"Where do I keep her?" Regina began pacing again. "A small village—where do I hide a dragon?"

"Oh. True, a dragon requires a large hiding space." Rumple spread out the multitude of scrolls across his dining table. He frowned as he studied his intricate designs. "The building must be kept locked at all times," he murmured. "Yet, from the outside, it must appear nondescript. . . . Yes, I think I have the place. I've constructed a library here, you see, over the tunnel through which the curse will bring us to the new world. As the leader of our new village, you will have dominion over all public buildings, so your order will be sufficient to close the library, and you alone will have authority to access the building whenever you wish. I do hate to see this lovely library I've planned go to waste, however."

"Do it."

"And the librarian?"

"What?"

"The librarian. She who runs the library. I've already selected someone for that position, you may recall."

"What do I care about a library person?" Regina fumed. "Find another place for her. And while you're at it, I want my Huntsman to be the enforcer of laws, so find another place for the sheriff you selected."

Rumplestiltskin smiled blandly. "As you wish, Your Majesty." He made some notes, then presented her with his finished plans—trusting that she wouldn't notice just how literally he had interpreted her command to "find another place."

* * *

With neither a timepiece nor a view of the outside world, Rumple couldn't tell the time with any certainty, but as the hours wore on, he came to realize that Regina had failed again. Midnight had come and gone and nothing had changed.

Perhaps she had overslept.

* * *

He could feel it now, a change in air pressure; then he could smell it: sulfur, wet leaves, rotting apples, burning flesh. Ah, yes. He quickly washed and changed his clothes, then sat in his wingback chair to wait as the air around him thickened and turned black. In the distance he heard someone scream, but already he felt so far removed from this world that another's terror had no effect on him.

He had planned for even this moment: in his last thoughts as Rumplestiltskin, he called from his memory the music of Belle's laugh, the diamond sparkle in her sky-blue eyes, and the warmth of his infant son's hand wrapping around his finger and holding on, as if for dear life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: Rumpie**

* * *

**Kansas City, KS**

**1983**

She played a wicked game. Cunning and unpredictable, her moves were; she enjoyed taking reckless risks even more than she enjoyed winning. Some of those who played against her joked that she should go pro, and then someone else would chortle, because whoever heard of a _librarian_ poker player?

She drove a Mazda RX7 and pretended it was a Lamborghini. On Friday nights, she sprayed a purple lightning bolt down the right side of her hair, looped feather earrings through her earlobes, squeezed herself into skin-tight jeans and went clubbing with her friends. Sometimes she didn't come home alone.

But on Sunday nights, she danced in her flannel p. j.'s to the Police and Bow Wow Wow and Savuka. Sometimes, in the half-awake hours before sunrise, she imagined she was a rock goddess.

Because sometimes she couldn't remember who she was.

And then the sun would rise, she'd slide off her canopied bed, catching her foot in the sheets, and nearly falling, and she'd yank off her p. j.'s and stand in a cold shower.

And sometimes, in the corner of her closet as she reached for her winter coat, or at the back of the bus as she rode to work, or in the parking lot outside the laundromat, she would see the man of her dreams. Or more precisely, the man _from_ her dreams: the Shadow Man, who stood straight-backed and silent, waiting for her to fall asleep. He never emerged from the shadows, never spoke—and, strangely, never caused her a moment of concern. On the contrary, she felt comforted by his presence, enjoyed his company. She never told anyone about Shadow Man; if she kept his secret, perhaps he wouldn't leave her.

She had been born twenty-five years ago in Wamego, Kansas, to Carl and Leona Hansen, a mechanic and a hairdresser. She had been a B student who partied just enough to avoid being called a geek, even when she went off to Emporia State for her library science degree. Right after college she'd accepted her first professional position at KCKPL, and there she remained. She supposed someday she'd rise into Administration. Perhaps someday she'd marry, after she'd grown bored with KC's male population.

Except sometimes she knew that wasn't her life at all. It was on those nights that Shadow Man showed up. Or maybe it was vice-versa: he showed up and then she knew. But mostly, she tried not to think about it too much.

She kept a book under her pillow. No one would find that unusual for a librarian, unless they saw the book. It was a very strange book, handwritten in a child's scrawl. Every character in it was named Rumplestiltskin, even the female characters. At the back of the book were some drawings, not good enough to be called illustrations, of a baby, a little boy and a young man. The drawings were labeled with archaic names she couldn't pronounce, except for the boy, who was "Ten." There was also a set of fingerprints, labeled with the same names. There was one proper illustration, in color, of a shaggy-haired, brown-eyed boy. This illustration was captioned in Old-English style handwriting; she thought it said "Baelsire" but she couldn't be sure.

During her lunch breaks she looked the names up in _1001 Baby Names_. From the Middle Ages, they were. She skimmed fairy tales for mention of Rumplestiltskin. Then she searched encyclopedias, books on the Middle Ages, files in the Genealogy Department. The staff helped her, though there wasn't much they could do without a surname or a location to go on. She claimed the names were her ancestors'; really, though, she had no idea who they were, or when, or why she should care. It was just a way to pass the time. Curiosity, the reference librarian's disease.

Then one night at a club her gal pal introduced her to a guy who claimed to work for the FBI. Ruthie wasn't sure she believed that; guys were always making that kind of stuff up. She would've minded being lied to if she'd been looking for a serious relationship, but hey, it was the '80s and she was a liberated woman, too young for marriage. The guy could hold a conversation and dance and he bought every other round of drinks, so that was enough. They danced to "Billie Jean" and "Saved by Zero." She gave him her number and they started dating a little.

He really did work for the FBI, on the KCMO side of town. She had a thing against KCMO—like most Kansans, she thought it both gangster-ridden and pretentious—and she wasn't sure how she felt about the FBI, considering what they'd done to John Lennon, but she liked Murph okay, so she made an exception when he wanted to take her to the Nelson-Atkins or Kemper Arena, or his place.

Murph wasn't a cop or anything; he had a degree in chemistry and worked in a lab, testing stuff from crime scenes. One night after they'd seen the Synchronicity Tour and she was on a buzz, she agreed to stay the night. It was nice. As she fell asleep, she glimpsed Shadow Man standing behind Murph's bedroom door.

In the morning as he cooked breakfast she asked, casually, if Murph happened to know anyone who worked in fingerprints. He did. Just curious, she said, and started talking about the Royals.

But a few months later, she mentioned her book with its fingerprint collection. Long-long relatives, Ruthie fibbed: a half-brother from her father's previous marriage, and the brother's two kids, none of whom she'd ever met. She hoped to find these people, get to know them, though her mother would be furious if she found out. A secret brother: the dream of every only child.

Then she showed him the book. A clean set of prints, Murph said; Mike could easily run them through the database, look for matches. Could, but _couldn't_—policy, you know. No playing around with government equipment. Well, sure, the library had the same rules, so she put the thought aside, didn't bring it up when Murph introduced her to Mike at the Christmas party, didn't mention it even when she and Murph started playing poker with Mike and some of the other guys and gals from the office.

* * *

Life was fun. She was happy. But then the dreams started coming more frequently, and she'd see Shadow Man in daylight: in the grocery store, at the movies, in the wings at a concert. Then in one twilight dream he stepped out of the shadows and _glowed_. Literally. His skin was covered with gold glitter; his fingernails were painted black. He had these funky contact lenses that made his eyes look like gold coins from a pirate's chest. Punk and Goth and New Wave all at once, a rock chick's heartthrob, except for his set of twisted, rotten teeth.

With a smooth singular move he perched cross-legged upon her bookcase. He was smiling a weird smile: smart ass and father at the same time. He just sat there, watching and waiting. She had to come to him. So she kicked off her sheets and went, fully aware she was still dreaming, except her bare feet felt cold, and when she had reached him, she could hear him breathing.

In his lap lay her book, open. She tore her stare from his amazing eyes just long enough to glance down, as he wanted her to: on the left page was the story of a girl called Rumplestiltskin IX—crazy! On the right page was the story of a small boy called Rumplestiltskin X. She'd read these stories enough times to know them by heart: IX had grown up to be a wealthy importer, a happy wife and mother. She had been called "Rumpie." The story of Ten was only three paragraphs long. Unlike the other stories, neither of these tales had a conclusion.

Having fulfilled her obligation to be polite, she brought her gaze back to those remarkable eyes. What rock chick could care about an old book of stories that didn't even make sense when right in front of her was this leather-clad, golden-eyed, glittering rock god? Rotten teeth aside, of course.

He turned his head to the side, looking at her askance.

"Shall we talk a while, then, 'of castles and kings and things'?" She said that. She had no idea why—she was dreaming, after all.

He turned the page to those badly drawn sketches: a baby, Amiria ("industrious," _1001 Names _translated); the young man, Leofwin ("dear friend"); the little boy Ten. Her mouth fell open and she looked back up to the rock god, and hated him. All the way down to her toenails, she hated hated hated him.

He had taken those babies away from her.

She woke up panting, "You." Her jaw ached. Her fingernails had cut bloody half-moons into her palms. Still more asleep than awake, she heard herself say, "I will never forget I hate you."

* * *

Shadow Man kept coming, night after night. One night she threw a shoe at him. Other nights, she turned her back on him. He kept coming.

* * *

She and Murph sometimes had dinner at Mike's. Mike's heritage was in barbeque; his family had their own special sauce, passed down through four generations. Mike lived with Jason, an FBI trainer. When she saw them in their dark suits and short hair, she felt stifled by Establishment, but at home, Jason in his Led Zeppelin t-shirt and Mike in his stained "Kiss the Cook" apron, they were as laid-back as Murph. So much for stereotypes: a librarian ought to know all about judging covers.

* * *

When Mike first introduced her to Jason, her heart stopped. Jason looked a spooky lot like the guy in the drawing in her book. She decided she liked him even before he said hello. Not a heart-throb kind of like—Jason was Mike's—but a childhood friend kind of like.

So she shared her secret with them, as they had shared their secret with her. She told them the truth about the book, but not in front of Murph. She didn't want her boyfriend to think she was nuts. She told them about Shadow Man, to explain why the book mattered. She showed them the fingerprints and drawings.

Jason chewed barbequed chicken and thought about it. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, then said, "That's a viable set of prints, there." He chewed some more before making up his mind. "Next month I'm teaching a class, Beginning Print Analysis."

Mike set down the bowl of potato salad he'd intended to pass around.

"I always need examples for the cadets to analyze," Jason shrugged.

Mike winked at Ruthie. "More potato salad, Little Sis?"

* * *

"I got matches." Jason squirmed on Ruthie's couch. "On all four prints." He glanced at Mike, as though seeking guidance, but Mike stared out the window. "What I want to know is, how'd you get _my_ prints in your book?"

Mike turned around. "Tell her rest, Jase."

"The set of adult prints that are marked 'Rumpie'—" Jason halted.

"Who, according to your book, is the wife of Leofwin—which is the name written under Jase's fingerprints—" Mike added.

Jason hung his head. "The 'Rumpie' fingerprints are yours."

Mike spun on Ruthie. "What's going on here, Little Sis? This some kind of scam or are you just mental?"

* * *

Mike moved out a few days later: it was just too weird. But eventually he decided that if there was an answer, he wanted to be in on it too; besides, after ten years, he considered himself fully invested in Jason's life.

* * *

"What about the other prints, the small ones?" Ruthie asked.

"Good idea," Mike snapped his fingers. "If we find those kids, maybe we'll figure this thing out."

"I dunno. It's kinda unethical. Definitely a violation of policy." Jason squirmed.

"Yeah, but don't you need to know?" Ruthie pushed.

"I do. Two to one, you're outvoted." Mike slapped a hand on the kitchen table, making the butter dish rattle.

Jason frowned, but he reached into his jeans pocket for a slip of paper. "Anna Marie Garber, age 2. Abandoned at a hospital in Washington State. Living in a foster home in Salem, Oregon. No birth certificate was ever found for her. Garber's the foster family's name."

Ruthie blanched. "Are they—good to her? Do they love her?"

Mike and Jason looked at her strangely. Jason resumed his reading. "Jeremy Crittendon, age 9. Lives in a foster home in Boise, the Davises. Mother died of a drug overdose. Father unknown—Jeremy's birth certificate doesn't list a father."

"The son of a bitch! I hate him! Hate, hate, hate him!"

Mike set a hand on Ruthie's shoulder. "You okay, Little Sis?"

She shrugged, startled at her own outburst. "I don't know why I said that." She'd never hated anyone in her life.

They sat there in silence in Ruthie's kitchen.

* * *

She used Phonefiche to find their addresses, the Garbers and the Davises, and she took off a couple of days to fly to Boise with Mike. As they sat in a rented Ford outside the Davises' tri-level, Mike remarked, "You know how weird this is?"

"Yup."

"You know how much trouble I could get into if my supervisor ever found out I did this?"

"Me too. There he is."

A group of kids played freeze tag in the front yard. Two of the boys looked about the right age, but she knew right away which one was Jeremy. He looked just like the kid in her drawing, the kid called Ten.

Mike took a couple of photos. They watched until the kids went inside, and then they came back the next day and watched some more. Jeremy looked healthy. But he wasn't with his family.

Jason picked them up at KCI. She couldn't wait: she showed him the photos as soon as they found him at the gate, and she studied him for a sign. Jason swallowed hard, but all he would say was, "Yeah, he looks like the kid in your book."

"Jase," Mike grabbed his arm, "he looks just like you did at that age."

* * *

Jason went with her to Salem.

* * *

"What do we do now?" he fretted on the plane back to KC. "They're okay where they are—"

"But they don't belong there."

"It's just a coincidence. Gotta be."

* * *

She was a twenty-seven-year old poker-playing reference librarian from Wamego, Kansas, who used to dream about meeting rock gods. Now she was throwing shoes at shadows and spying on families. She really needed to grow up before she did something totally nuts. She threw the leather-covered book in a dumpster and let Murph give her an engagement ring.

A few nights later, Shadow Man returned. This time he came to her. Sat down on her bed, shook her awake, thrust the book at her.

"I hate you." She pulled the sheets over her head.

"I destroyed your family to save my own." His voice was nasal and accented.

She sat bolt upright. "This is nuts."

He thrust the book at her again, and this time she accepted it. She awoke with the book under her pillow, where it belonged.

* * *

She was a poker-playing reference librarian who sometimes couldn't remember quite who or where she was, and it was time to put her cards on the table. She sat her fiancé down with their mutual friends Mike and Jason, and she told Murph what she had done. She showed him the book and Mike's photos of Jeremy.

After a lot of yelling, she wasn't engaged any more.

* * *

Jason threw a yellow legal pad onto the dining table. The pad knocked over a salt shaker; Mike snatched the shaker up, shook a few grains into his hand and tossed them over his shoulder before fetching a sponge. "CPS has removed Jeremy from the Davises'. He's now with a family in Orlando."

"Why?" Ruthie picked up the pad and tried to read Jason's handwriting.

"By request of the Davises. They said they couldn't handle him." Jason dropped into a chair and ran a hand across his mouth. "Compulsive liar, they said. He's been telling the other kids that he's an extraterrestrial. Kids at school bully him for it; the Davises' other foster kids are embarrassed by him. He's on his third psychotherapist as well."

"He must be miserable," Mike commented; he and Jason exchanged an understanding glance.

"Isn't there anything we can do about it?"

Ruthie's question remained hanging in the air.

* * *

Above the mantel of her imitation fireplace, Ruthie hung five red stockings that Christmas. The names she'd written on the sparkly Santa tags were Mike, Jason, Ruthie, Anna Marie and Jeremy.

* * *

"CPS moved him again." No one asked who "him" meant. "Another family in Orlando. Another therapist. He got into a fight at school and broke another kid's nose. He's started running away."

Ruthie and Jason made a spying trip to Florida.

"The Garbers threw a birthday party for Anna Marie. Of course no one knows her actual birthday, so they just picked one. They hired a magician and a clown."

"That's great." But Ruthie's voice belied her words.

Mike brought up the curse word: "Adoption?"

Jason shook his head. "The Garbers have given temporary homes to nineteen kids over the past eleven years. They've never adopted. Never kept one more than two years. They don't want to get attached."

* * *

"The Gueseys"—Jeremy's current caretakers—"got busted last night. Cocaine possession. When CPS came in for the kids, they found signs of physical abuse."

"Jeremy?"

Jason hung his head.

Ruthie jumped to her feet. "I'm taking those kids. They need me; they belong with me."

"A single woman can't adopt children," Jason murmured. "No matter how much she loves them." He turned away, pretending to busy himself with the trash can.

"I have to take those kids," Ruthie snapped. "If CPS won't give them to me, I'll take them."

"Oh no, Little Sister," Mike said gently. "Don't be jumping on that train of thought. We can do this legally. Together." He opened the manila envelope Jason had carried in; inside were some photos that told Jeremy's story. Mike picked up one of the photos and carried it over to Jason. Leaning on Jason's shoulder, Mike whispered something, then showed him the photo. With a shuddering sigh, Jason dropped the trash can and accepted the photo.

"We know a lot of lawyers," Mike told Ruthie. "Let's make some calls."

* * *

They were huddled around Ruthie's kitchen table. Ruthie poured them lemonade, but she spilled some because her hands were shaking. She hadn't slept well in weeks. When she tried, Shadow Man appeared. When she threw shoes at him, he threw photos of an abused little boy at her.

Mike broached the subject gently. "Ruthie. . . what if Jase and I apply for the adoption?"

"What?"

"We're a couple," Mike remarked. He set a hand on Jason's arm. "We've always wanted a family. Here it is. They need us; we need them." Mike spread his hands.

"They're my kids," Ruthie objected.

"Of course they are. We'll do this together. One mom, two dads, two happy kids."

In a low voice, Jason warned, "No one's going to give us custody."

"Well, why the hell not?" Mike roared. "We're an adoption agency's dream: a long-term, stable relationship, college-educated professionals with good incomes, good health, a big house in a good neighborhood with an elementary school not three blocks away. Hell, all we need's the swing set in the backyard."

"We've been over and over this." Jason turned away.

* * *

They were giving out little boxes of raisins—Mike didn't approve of giving kids sweets—to the trick-or-treaters that came to their door: Mike in a Superman costume, Jason as Green Lantern, Ruthie as Batgirl. When they'd distributed the last of the raisins, Mike snapped off the porch light and shut the door.

Jason had been in an unusually upbeat mood this evening, despite having brought home another manila envelope. As Mike poured the wine, Ruthie eyed the envelope suspiciously. "Another CPS report?"

"Nope," Jason grinned, and Ruthie's scalp tingled, as though a rusty memory had just been accessed. She'd never seen him grin before—smile, but never grin—but it seemed familiar just the same. Homey.

Jason upended the envelope and shook it. Various forms—the blanks filled in with Jason's handwriting—fluttered out, along with a business card. Ruthie picked up the card. "Mr. Gold, Attorney at Law." Strong, simple letters etched in—of course—gold. No address. She didn't recognize the area code in the phone number.

"He's in Maine. I've been communicating with him through a friend. He specializes in difficult adoptions."

Ruthie sat down hard, nearly missing the seat. "He can help me." There was no question in her voice.

"Us," Jason corrected. He pulled a chair close to Ruthie's, taking her hand. Still in their Halloween costumes, they would have looked silly to an outsider. Jason extracted a pair of photos from the stack of papers that had fallen out of the envelope. "Ruthie. . ." His eyes filled and he had to blink before he could continue. "When I look at these pictures I know: these are my kids. Yours and mine. And I want them to be Mike's too."

Mike drew up a chair too. "These kids need all the love they can get. We'll raise them, all three of us, together."

"Gold says he can arrange it. You'll have legal custody."

"And you'll have a home with us, if you'll accept it. We'll remodel the top floor, add a fourth bedroom," Mike said. "And a swing set in the back yard."

"It'll take some adjustment, but we'll make it work." Jason laid the photos in her lap. "What do you say, Ruthie? Do you need time to think about it?"

"I say, congratulations, gentlemen: it's a girl _and_ a boy." Ruthie raised her wine glass in a salute. "Thank you, Mr. Gold, whoever you are. I love, love, love you!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Ace in the Hole**

**Chapter 3: Baelfire**

* * *

A young social worker with a brief case dropped in unannounced at the house on Rose Avenue that Ruthie now shared with Jason and Mike. She inspected the house so closely one would think she intended to purchase it. She asked question after question about their habits, their hobbies, their beliefs, their jobs, their experience with children—she didn't question their unusual living arrangement, however.

"Does she know?" Mike whispered.

"I assume so. I told Mr. Gold."

"What did you tell him?"

"The truth." Ruthie said. "Except, I didn't mention the book or the fingerprints."

Jason started remodeling the top floor and Mike bought clothes and toys and lots of books. In thirty-three days Ruthie received a stack of forms from an office in Storybrooke, Maine. What a lovely name, Ruthie said; I must take the children there sometime. Jason handed her a ballpoint. "Get to writing."

In another week they had a letter from the office: a decision was forthcoming.

One evening the phone rang. "Ms. Hansen? Good evening. It's Mr. Gold."

Her heart stopped, but she had presence of mind to wave frantically at Jason, who dropped the paint brush and came running. Jason pressed his head close to hers and she held the receiver away from her ear so they could both listen.

"Good evening, Mr. Gold," she gulped.

"I'm sorry we couldn't meet in person, but the demands of my business make it impossible for me to get away just now. Perhaps sometime in the near future."

If the topic of conversation had been anything but the children, Ruthie might have had trouble concentrating; Mr. Gold had such a lovely accent and a rather old-fashioned way of speaking—courtly, she thought. "Yes, I would be pleased to meet you."

"I have some news regarding your applications for the adoptions of Anna Marie and Jeremy."

"Good news, I hope?" Her hand on the receiver shook so hard that Jason had to grasp it or she would have dropped the phone.

"As I'm sure you can appreciate, I don't take adoption cases lightly. I must be certain that the placement would be successful before I proceed. And your situation is somewhat unusual."

"Understandable. I assure you, the children will have a good life here. I love them, Mr. Gold, and my housemates do too."

"My investigator was satisfied with her inspection; however, before I present your applications to a judge, I must be certain we are in agreement."

"Yes, sir."

"You will attend to the children's every need—but not their every desire. You will protect them from harm, but do not protect them from the world, for they must be allowed to make their own way. You will educate them, not to the limits of your ability, but to the limits of theirs."

Tears rolled down Ruthie's cheeks. "Mr. Gold, you have my word, we will care for these children with everything we have and everything we are."

The other end of the line went silent for a long moment, then the attorney answered, "Ms. Hansen, I will file the paperwork with the court at nine a. m. tomorrow. You can expect to hear from me again in ten to fourteen days."

Ten to fourteen days. Every evening just before they sat down to dinner, they made a ceremony of crossing another block off the calendar. On Day Seven Ruthie stopped off at her bank after work and bought two Savings Bonds in the names Anna Marie Hansen and Jeremy Hansen. On Day Nine she made library cards for the children.

On Day Ten Mr. Gold called again. "Please meet Flight 815 from Orlando on Monday, 6 p.m., Gate A23. My representative will be bringing Jeremy. Anna Marie will arrive on Thursday."

That night, as she was falling asleep, clutching a fuzzy white lamb she'd bought for Anna Marie, Ruthie looked for Shadow Man. He didn't appear.

**1985**

She chose Mike as her escort on this, the most important of days, her first day of school. As she splashed away in her yellow raincoat and black galoshes, her freshly scrubbed face shining and her hand tugging at his, Anna Marie set out to conquer the world.

From the first moment Anna Marie was handed to her, Ruthie felt at home. She set the toddler on her hip and spoke to her, not in baby gibberish, but in complete sentences, welcoming her to her new family. As Ruthie hummed "Golden Slumbers," Anna dropped her head on her new mom's shoulder and fell asleep. Their bond was sealed.

Anna's new big brother was a different matter. Psychological tests had proven him to be of average intelligence, but teachers reported him as lazy, insubordinate, even belligerent. He had learned, over the years, to no longer fabricate stories about an alien birth, but he spent his free time drawing pictures of mystical places and beings and hero-worshipping Conan the Barbarian. Mike caught him once swiping a serrated knife from the kitchen drawer with the intention of wielding it as a sword. Eventually, Jeremy came to hero-worship Jason, who took him to Chiefs games and taught him how to rebuild an engine. He also learned to respect his family, though, unlike Anna, he never used the terms "Mama" and "Daddy." Under Jason's watchful eye, the boy developed good manners and better habits, but although his grades improved, he seldom smiled.

On the first of every month, without fail, Ruthie wrote a letter to Mr. Gold, providing a lively report of the children's progress—and where it happened, regress. Since she had no idea what Gold looked like and would likely never meet him, her letters felt more like journal entries; this freed her to tell the whole truth. Gold never replied, but each year on the anniversary of the adoptions, he sent a small gift for each child: toys or books. Mike made certain that, as soon as they could write, the children sent thank-you notes.

Off and on for months, Ruthie and Jason and Mike deliberated whether to someday tell the children the full, strange story of their adoption. They finally decided that Anna Marie and Jeremy had enough to deal with, so Ruthie took the book to a bank and locked it in a safety deposit box, where the kids would never find it.

* * *

Life was good. Strange, but good. Ruthie was happy. But then Shadow Man started appearing again.

The first night, she sat up in bed with her hands on her hips. "What do you want now?"

He just sat there on her bookshelf, holding that book on his lap. She looked for a shoe to throw but had to settle for her pillow.

On the second night, his voice woke her. "This is—" She couldn't quite make out the third word because of Shadow Man's accent. "If he lives still, he is alone."

She kicked off her sheets and stomped to the bookshelf. "What?"

He said nothing else, merely looked at her askance.

"Look, it was a long day, okay? I had a conference with Jeremy's teacher and I got stuck on a program planning committee at work and Mike's cinnamon chicken isn't sitting too well." With a growl she glanced down at the page he'd opened: the portrait of the shaggy-haired boy.

"Well, what do you expect me to do? At least with Anna and Jeremy I had fingerprints." She climbed back into bed, the sheets over her ears.

* * *

Ruthie had reached the point in her career at which she needed to establish her professional identity on a broader stage. With reluctance, she turned down a request to be the leader for Anna's Brownie troop and instead chaired a program development committee for the Kansas Library Association's annual conference. It meant lots of extra time on the phone and on the road, but Jason and Mike stepped in with the kids.

It was a winter dawn, I-70 slick with black ice, but she had a committee meeting in Topeka, so she gripped the steering wheel and hummed Police songs to buoy her courage, her cassette player being on the fritz.

"Charming."

Ruthie's eyes snapped open. She must've dozed off.

"Nice looking lads, these. Rather noisy, though."

Ruthie glanced in the rearview mirror. A pair of huge gold eyes smiled back at her.

She lifted her foot from the accelerator and calmly applied it to the brake. All right, not calmly, but she'd driven on black ice often enough to not allow anything, no matter how weird, to distract her from the road. She rattled off to the side of the highway. Counting to three, she took a deep breath and turned around.

"Good morning." The rock god lounged in her back seat. He held the empty case for _Zenyatta Mondatta_.

"Oh, so that's where it went." Ruthie muttered. If she pretended that hallucinations rode in her back seat on a daily basis, perhaps she wouldn't scream. "The tape broke long ago."

Shadow Man pointed to the cover photograph. "This one on the left, he's known as 'Ace Face,' is he not?"

"Uh, yeah, sometimes, I guess."

Shadow Man tossed the empty case into her passenger seat. "You are my Ace, dearie, my ace in the hole. Remember that."

A sixteen-wheeler rumbled past, sending a shock wave to her RX7. She grasped the steering wheel. When she looked over her shoulder again, the back seat was of course empty, except for her tote bag and a football book she'd checked out for Jeremy.

Yada yada yada. The seven members of the committee had plenty of ideas for conference workshops—plenty of _last year's_ ideas. Ruthie sipped black coffee to stay awake—she hated coffee, usually took tea, but none was available. And then a newly minted librarian from Manhattan woke everybody up with her suggestion: "Something awesome we did in library school: what if we had, like, a reference scavenger hunt? Give a real hard reference question, break them into teams of two, and the first team to come back with the right answer wins."

Ruthie looked up from her page of doodles: hearts, clubs, spades, gold-skinned rock gods with bad teeth. "Great idea, Maggie. That sounds like Bae."

"Sorry?" Maggie echoed. "Did you say, 'sounds like bay'?"

Ruthie shook her head to clear it. "The way. Sounds like the way. To get everyone excited." Then she dropped her pen. "And I have just the reference question."

* * *

Ruthie and her co-presenters dashed down the aisle, tossing t-shirts into the audience. When Ruthie had made her way to the podium, she raised one of the t-shirts high for the crowd to see it. "This is your reference problem. We have a portrait of a brown-haired, brown-eyed boy, a young teen. Under the drawing is a name 'B-A-E-L-S-I-R-E.'"

Someone in the audience raised a hand. "I think that's an F, not an S. 'B-A-E-L-F-I-R-E.'"

"There you go. You're already working. This picture and the name are all we have to go on."

"Context?" someone else asked. "Where'd you get the drawing?"

"The patron doesn't remember where she found the drawing. She's had this picture since she was a child."

"Where'd she grow up? How old is she?"

"Good questions, but she knows the drawing didn't originate in the place she found it, and it predates her birth."

"Can we see the original? Has the paper been tested?"

"The original is not available. The paper has been tested. Tests were inconclusive. The date could not be estimated." Ruthie was proud of herself for having tried that route already: she'd had an archivist examine the picture to try to date it. She glanced at the clock overhead. "Your task is to identify this boy."

"How do we know this is a real boy? The picture's a drawing, not a photo."

"Also a good question. We don't. Try both avenues. I don't expect you'll have an answer by the end of our conference. It may take weeks. Months. You have my business card: phone or mail your answers to me. The first librarian with the correct solution wins." She didn't have to offer a prize: bragging rights were award enough.

* * *

She was a twenty-eight-year-old poker-playing reference librarian from Wamego, Kansas. In the past year she'd learned that being a mom was infinitely more interesting than being a rock goddess, that some people really are destined to be together, and that she was somebody's Ace in the Hole, though she didn't yet understand what that meant. She'd thrown most of her cards on the table in the hopes that what she couldn't figure out herself, someone else could.

* * *

The Baelfire Games became the library world's Rubik's Cube of 1986. The librarians of Kansas shared it with their colleagues in Missouri and Iowa, who shared it—and within two months, Baelfire t-shirts could be seen on librarians all around the country, and even some in Europe, Scandinavia, and Asia. Ruthie and her committee were invited to present the Baelfire Games at the American Library Association Annual Conference. Ruthie had advanced her career tenfold.

A week after her ALA presentation, Ruthie received a phone call from a librarian at the University of Texas. That in itself was not terribly unusual: if a local library hadn't the right books to answer a question, the staff would phone or write to a library that did. But this call was different. "I shouldn't be telling you this," the caller began, "but the Baelfire Games thing? I know who Baelfire is."

"He's a real person, then," Ruthie surmised. "Someone you know personally, or a patron." Confidentiality policies prohibited librarians from revealing a patron's use of the library.

"Yeah. . . off and on." The caller paused, struggling with her conscience. "Listen, you won't tell anybody where you heard this, will you? I mean, it would be cool to win the contest and all, but I could get fired, you know?"

"I get it. Tell you what: if it turns out you're right, I'll simply report the winner as Anonymous."

The caller sighed. "Thanks. I wouldn't even tell you this at all, except—well, this kid is in trouble, and I was hoping maybe you know him, or used to know him, and you could help him."

"That's exactly what I want to do." Ruthie's pulse pounded in her ears.

From the open kitchen window she could hear her children playing on the lawn with their fathers. They were catching fireflies, trapping them in the test tubes from Jeremy's new chemistry set. Jeremy had been thrilled last night when he opened his birthday gifts. Now that he was ten—

Now that he was Ten. Now that he was Ten. His fingerprints in the book—the book that had brought this family together—according to the book, Jeremy was Rumplestiltskin the Tenth, the brother of Amiria, the son of Leofwin and Rumplestiltskin the Ninth.

"Okay then." The caller drew in a deep breath. "Well, I could be wrong, but I don't think so. He looks just like the picture. Not just the way he looks, but—the way he's looking, you know what I mean? His eyes. Like he's got this built-in BS detector and you just told him a whopper, you know? You can't put anything over on him. But still got that little-kid cuteness, so you want to hug him at the same time he's ratting you out. He comes in to PCL sometimes when the weather's bad. He doesn't cause any trouble, just sits and reads—science fiction, mostly—so we don't chase him out."

"Do you know his name? Where he lives?"

"Sorta. . . ."

* * *

Forewarned, she'd left most of her money and the book back in the hotel room. She carried with her a few dollars; her business cards; a photo, sent to her by the anonymous librarian; pepper spray; and a will of steel, for she was entering Drag Worm territory.

Anonymous hadn't exaggerated: as soon as the cab let her out in front of the Varsity Theater, she was approached by a pair of teens asking for money. In their Izod t-shirts they hardly seemed to need a handout. For these kids, Anonymous had said, panhandling was an entertainment; they lived in an upper-middle class section on the Westside and came down to Guadalupe Street to take advantage of new UT students—the experienced students having learned to avoid the Drag altogether. Ruthie brushed past them and needled through the crowds milling around the bookstores, pizza places, boutiques, coffee shops, and record stores.

A block south of the theater, she entered the Renaissance Market, a cluster of canopied tables laden with t-shirts, hats, jewelry, and crafts. Another block south and she found the alley Anonymous had told her about; here, the panhandlers were just as aggressive, but older, jaded and faded. Here she began her search, casting quick glances at every face she passed.

By noon she was reddening in the dry Texas heat, and she wondered if her continuing presence in the alley had raised suspicion. She bought a raspa and sat down on the steps of the University Baptist Church. Tiredly, she waved away the passing hands that reached out for money.

"Aw come on, lady, a few bucks won't mean nothin' to you. I ain't had nothin' to eat today."

Ruthie tried to turn away, but this girl was more persistent than the rest, and dirtier. One of the homeless teens who slept in the alley, she had to be. Ruthie decided to call her bluff. Standing, Ruthie wiped her sticky hands on her jeans, and offered, "I won't give you money, but let's go over to that food cart there and I'll buy you a taco."

The girl hesitated, and Ruthie started to walk away from her: it was cash, not food, she wanted. But then the girl called out to her again. "Can I get a soda too? It's kinda hot today."

Ruthie looked her in the eyes then: blue eyes in a freckled face, not a day over fourteen. Ruthie nodded and led her to the food truck. Rather delicately, the girl arranged onions and jalapenos on her taco, then bit into it from the end, holding it up with both hands so she could catch any fragments that fell out.

"Hey, maybe you can do something for me."

Her mouth full of beef, the girl squinted suspiciously. She hadn't been on the street for long, Ruthie surmised, but for long enough. "I'm looking for Cutter."

The girl stopped chewing.

"Look, I'm his aunt. I just want to see how he's doing."

The girl bit into her taco again.

Ruthie tried again, reaching into her jeans pocket for the photo, which she displayed. "About five foot nine, sixteen years old, skinny?" When the girl didn't answer, Ruthie pressed, "I just want to see him a minute, that's all. Please."

"Buy me another taco?"

As Ruthie paid for the second taco, the girl sipped her soda, then wiped her hands on a napkin. "You don't tell him who told you, okay? This time of day, he usually hangs out behind the Shakespeare Bookstore." She loaded her second taco, then eyed Ruthie's. "You gonna finish that?" Then she blushed. "I mean, if you don't want it—"

Ruthie gave her the uneaten taco and the girl strolled off, blending into the crowd of college students.

Behind the Shakespeare Bookstore, in a tight little gravel parking lot, Ruthie found a group of five boys, all about the same age, playing cards beneath a live oak. She hung back silently; as a player herself, she knew better than to interrupt a game, even one in which the stakes were pennies.

They were playing Texas Holdem, Baelfire dealing. Thank the gods, Ruthie thought she had a chance of understanding him now. He might be called Cutter; he might have a reputation for thievery, lying and sudden outbursts, but he liked rules, sticking to them and requiring the same of the others. His playing style was very different from her own, instinctual style: he was methodical and logical, eagle-eyed, focused completely on the final outcome. He recognized a bad hand immediately and didn't let it upset him; he recognized a good hand immediately and didn't let it excite him. He lost two for every game he won, giving his opponents a false sense of security; they didn't notice that the games he won were those in which the pot was the largest. His goal was money, not glory.

And now she had her way in.

She waited until two of the boys had lost all their money and drifted off, then she approached. "Excuse me. I play some myself, and I've got about two hours to kill before my husband finishes his seminar at the university. Can I sit in?"

Two of the boys snorted and chortled; Cutter ignored her, stacking his winnings into neat towers.

"I know what you're thinking, but I'm pretty good; won the Kansas Ladies' Championship two years ago."

Now the two laughed outright, and Cutter, without looking up, shrugged. "I got a few minutes. I don't mind takin' your money, lady. What's your game?"

She squatted down in the dirt, fishing pennies from her jeans. "Five-card stud."

One of the boys wagged his eyebrows at her. "I'll show you stud, lady, and I don't need no cards." He leered, displaying an absence of front teeth. Cutter slugged him, then passed him the cards to deal.

She let Toothless win the first and second hands. Cutter never looked at her, never flinched when she made a brash play. With the third hand, Cutter got serious and started winning, and she started raising the stakes to squeeze Toothless and the Other Kid out. After an hour, the heat was getting to her, and she knew she'd have to make her move before a heat headache overtook her. As she took the last of Other Kid's money, Toothless grunted, "Lady, I don't know how you do it. You play like you got a ace in the hole every game."

"I told you: Kansas State Ladies' Championship." Ruthie shuffled the cards. "I'm getting a little restless, boys. Let's play some Number Nine. Nines wild."

She'd gradually bumped the stakes up to dollars, and she caught Cutter sneaking hungry glances at the pot. She forced Toothless out of the game. Cutter hesitated—he had a nice little stack of bills in front of him now, enough to treat his buddies to pizza, and he'd won more against her than he'd lost: he needed to quit rather risk losing to a Yankee. But because she was a Yankee tourist, the temptation was too great: he allowed himself to be manipulated into, what was for him, high stakes. She let him win a hand just to build his confidence, then she pounced, throwing a ten-dollar bill into the pot. "Raise."

He studied his hand a long moment, eyed the pot, counted his cash. Finally he shook his head. "I can't—"

"I'll take an IOU."

"Unless you're plannin' on comin' back tomorrow—"

"Not money. Time. I win, I get ten minutes of your time."

The Other Kid and Toothless howled and made vulgar suggestive remarks. Cutter scowled, his eyes fixed on the pot. "You some kind of social worker, lady?"

Ruthie sat back with a grin. "I'm a librarian."

Cutter burst out laughing, then quickly squelched it. "You ain't shittin' me?"

She fished one of her business cards from her pocket and tossed it onto the pile of cash. He glanced down at it without picking it up. "OK."

She spread out her hand, and he spread his: a straight flush to his full house. He didn't flinch as she raked in the pot. She stood. "I'll take my ten minutes now." She handed half the cash to Other Kid. "Here, have a pizza on me."

Without comment, Cutter followed her to Amy's Ice Cream. He hesitated before stepping over the threshold. "You don't like ice cream?" she asked. He shrugged and accepted the challenge, following her to the counter, despite hard looks from the clean and the well-dressed enjoying their cones at the little iron tables. She ordered a dish of chocolate swirl for him and a dish of French vanilla for herself, and they settled at an empty table at the back.

"You gonna try to convert me or something?" He finally looked her in the eye.

"Just delivering a message. What you do with it's your business." She scooped up a bite of ice cream, her hands steady, her face relaxed, but beneath the table, her knees shook.

He picked up his spoon with a glance at the counter clock. "Nine minutes."

"How come they call you Cutter?"

"What do you want to know that for?"

She leaned in. "Because it's hardly a nickname for someone named Baelfire."

He stopped eating.

She set down her spoon and withdrew a paper from her pocket: a photocopy of the portrait from her book. Without the colors, it didn't capture him well.

He shrugged and resumed his eating.

"All right, cards on the table: I don't know where I got this picture, but I know it's you. I don't know what I'm supposed to do about it. I guess I was hoping you would."

He said nothing.

"Did I say it right? 'Baelfire'?" She pronounced it with a soft _a. _

Still he said nothing.

"See, I have this book. I don't know how I got it; I've had it as long as I can remember. This picture was in it. There were other things in this book that turned out to be important." Exasperated, she sighed. "Look, I know that's you."

He finished his ice cream and stared hard at her. "Lady, you're weird." He stood.

"You can't leave. You agreed to ten minutes."

"I lied."

She seized his wrist, yanking him towards her. "I know who you are. I want you to know who I am."

"You're some kind of cop, or a sicko." He twisted his arm, trying to pull away, but she pulled him in farther.

"My name is Rumplestiltskin," she hissed.

He wrenched his wrist free and ran.

She searched the Drag until sunset, then she returned, sunburned and sobbing, to her hotel room. She tried to sleep but couldn't let go of her failure. She called out for Shadow Man, but he didn't show.

In the morning she returned to the Drag, searching alley by alley, shop by shop; she couldn't find any of them—Toothless, Other Kid, Cutter, or even the freckled girl. She allowed herself to be swept up in a cluster of students crossing Guadalupe to the UT campus, and then found her way to the Perry-Castaneda Library. Methodically, she searched every aisle and study room in the six-floor building. Then she went back to the Drag and tried again.

When darkness fell she returned to her hotel and cried.

* * *

A library assistant tapped her on the shoulder, interrupting her search in _Kansas Statutes_ for "eminent domain." She smiled briefly at the patron she was assisting. "Here," she pointed to a page. "Start here, and if you don't find what you're looking for, we'll try the city ordinances."

The library assistant whispered, "Phone call. It's an emergency."

Her throat clutching, Ruthie trotted to the office she shared with three other librarians. She picked up the receiver. "This is Ruth Hansen."

"Brackenridge Hospital calling, from Austin, Texas. I'm Bo Peveto, the chaplin here." The voice on the other end hesitated. "I'm not sure I—do you know a sixteen-year-old boy called Cutter?"

"I do."

"Are you a relative?"

"Not exactly."

"We found your business card on him and we were hoping you could answer some questions about him. He refuses to talk to us."

"Has he been in an accident? Is he hurt?"

"He was in a fight. He was stabbed twice in the abdomen. He's recovering, but under the circumstances, the police referred it to Child Protective Services. I thought, if you were a relative, you'd want to know."

"Please, can you tell CPS I'm on my way? I'll catch the next flight out."

* * *

He had a record, of course, and a reputation. A Blanco County game warden had picked him up for the first time in 1983; he'd been attempting to hunt rabbit out of season—unsuccessfully, having only a knife. The warden had found the whole thing odd: the kid had been wandering around alone, half-starved, and clearly had no idea how to hunt. CPS stepped in, then had a battery of physical and psychological tests run when the boy gave some crazy story about having arrived from another world—through a bean. The boy refused to give his name, wouldn't admit to having any relatives. After the first round of psychological tests he stopped talking altogether. The police ran his fingerprints but turned up nothing.

Besides being malnourished, there was nothing physically wrong with him, and he presented no threat to anyone, so CPS sent him to a group home, where he continued the silent treatment, though he obeyed instructions.

Two weeks later, he disappeared, taking the clothes that had been bought for him, and a knife he'd swiped from the kitchen.

He'd left a paper trail around Central Texas: shoplifting, fights. They'd catch him, put him back in a home, and he'd run again, first chance he got. Not that the authorities tried all that hard: they had an overload of worse cases; nobody had time for a nameless petty thief. Among the Drag Worms he'd established himself as a successful panhandler and a survivor who'd push back if threatened.

Ruthie told CPS she'd encountered him on the street; had hired him to change a flat tire for her, and then, in case he ever needed help, she'd given him her card. The CPS social worker had too many other cases to cope with, so the interview was brief; when Ruthie offered to take him back to Kansas City and Cutter agreed, the social worker signed off on it. CPS agents figured, if they gave Cutter some say in the matter, perhaps he'd stay put.

Jason and Mike threw a fit—rightfully; what was she thinking, exposing her children to this delinquent? She retrieved the book from her security box and showed them Baelfire's picture, and they shut up after that. It was only for two years anyway, till they figured the kid had turned eighteen. They pooled their incomes and put Cutter—whom they now called Bill Hansen—in military school.

* * *

He'd been living with them four months before he got around to asking the question. He and Ruthie were alone in the kitchen, washing dishes. "That time in Amy's—you said you knew my name."

"I do."

"You said your name—"

"—is Rumplestiltskin. Yes."

She took him into the back yard so they could be alone, and she showed him the book of Rumplestiltskins. "I'm Nine, and my son Jeremy is Ten. But you must never tell him that. It would mess with his head."

"Yeah," Bill rubbed his forehead as if trying to wipe out painful memories. "They told me I was delusional. After a while I figured they had to be right."

"I've had doubts about myself too. There's too much information missing. But I know for certain these are my fingerprints, and these fingerprints are Jeremy's and Anna Marie's and Jason's. And this picture is you."

He thought for a long time before admitting in a low voice, "I am Baelfire. I am the son of Rumplestiltskin." He pointed to a page in the book. "This Rumplestiltskin."

"The giver of blessings." Ruthie teared up.

Bill slid an arm around her shoulder. "I'm not crazy."

"No."

"But how the hell did this happen to us?"

**1986**

From the mantel above their fireplace, she hung six Christmas stockings, labeled Mike, Jason, Jeremy, Anna Marie, Ruthie, and Bill.

As she crawled into bed after a long but satisfying day, Ruthie paused to inspect her bookcase, her closet, and the corners of her room. She called out—softly, she wouldn't awaken the household—"Hello? Are you there?" But Shadow Man failed to appear.

She called again. "Hello? I did good, didn't I? Are you proud of me?"

**2012**

Rumpie pulls the quilt up around her ears. "Too cold," she moans. "Get up and start a fire."

When the bed doesn't shift, she reaches a hand behind her. "Leofwin! Get up and start a fire. It's freezing."

No one answers her. She curses and throws the quilt off, feels around in the dark for her bathrobe. "Leofwin, wake up."

Sliding her feet into her fuzzy slippers, she insists, "We can't sleep in today. We're flying to Ann Arbor, remember? Anna's Hooding Ceremony."

She turns around. No one is in the bed.

Her head starts to ache.

Her bedroom door flies open and Jason, dressed in his ratty Led Zeppelin t-shirt and jeans, bursts in. His hair—or what remains of it, since he's lost most of it over the years—sticks out in wisps about his ears. He grasps her in a painful bear hug, then plants a powerful kiss on her mouth. "Rumpie! Rumpie!" He can't find words, just repeats her name over and over.

Stunned, she steps out of his embrace. "Leofwin?" She has to sit down again to catch her breath. "What's happened?" She fumbles on her nightstand for her glasses. When she can see him clearly, she notices he's crying.

"I remember—everything!" he pants. "The village, the children, you—Amiria and Ten, our cook's name is Radegund, the King is Gladwin the Third, my name is Leofwin and you're my gorgeous wife with the crazy name, Rumplestiltskin the Ninth!" He drops to his knees on the floor, laughing and crying.

"My name is Rumplestiltskin," she says softly. "Every year, on the fourth day of the first month after harvest—" Her eyes search the room. She jumps to her feet too quickly and gets dizzy; Leofwin steadies her, as he always has, as he always will. She looks into his eyes and recognizes her husband and comes into his arms in tears.

When she has regained her composure, she wipes her face on her sleeve. "I have to call Bill."

Leofwin glances at the open bedroom door. "And I have to tell Mike."

* * *

After the Hooding Ceremony, the family celebrates in a private dining room at Anna Marie's favorite restaurant. Anna Marie, still in her hood and gown, makes a little speech thanking her boyfriend, her mother, her brother, and her fathers for all their love and support, and she vows to make them proud. Her brother the entomologist and her sister-in-law present her with a strange gift: a business card.

"When you've decided where to set up your practice, call this number," Jeremy advises. "He's an interior decorator; he'll set up your office for you."

"Thank you, big bro and sis," Anna raises a wine glass to them.

"Our pleasure, Dr. Hansen. And good luck in your business. Not that you'll need it: this world is full of crazies." For Anna is now a licensed psychologist, specializing in treatment of addictions.

The family celebrates late into the night, and when Anna and her boyfriend leave for their apartment and Jeremy and his wife leave for their hotel, the remaining family members stroll down the block to a club for a nightcap. Ruthie chuckles as they enter: a flashing disco ball spins overhead as couples dance to "Saved by Zero."

"Everything old is new again," she says.

But Mike corrects her. "Wish that was so, Little Sis, but some of us are just plain old." He pats his bald head for emphasis.

They find a relatively quiet table and order drinks. "Now we've got some talking to do," Ruthie says.

"I don't think we should tell the kids," Jason says.

"They're not kids any more, Jase," Mike points out. "Don't you think they ought to know where they came from?"

"They know they came from love. That's what matters. Anything more would just confuse the issue."

Mike turns to Bill. "What do you think, Bill? You've been there, done that."

Bill takes a long swallow of his beer before answering. "I don't see what good it would do for them to know. For you, yeah: it was your world, part of your life. But _this_ is our world, Jer's and Anna's and mine; we can't go back there. Wouldn't want to." He falls silent.

"Bill," Ruthie sets a comforting hand on his arm. "I have a message for you. I'm just sorry it took me so long to deliver it."

Bill looks up expectantly. Ruthie's eyes fill with tears: he is so different from the Drag Worm he was, so different from the bushy-haired boy in the portrait in her book. He carries the weight of two worlds on his broad shoulders, and while that weight slows him, robs him of optimism and humor, he carries it without breaking under it. He's found a substitute family here, and in the Air Force he's found a third world, one in which he belongs.

"Baelfire, a long time ago, I knew your father. I know what people thought of him in the old land; I know what you thought of him. But I want you to know, my family wouldn't exist if not for him. And he asked me to deliver a message to you."

Bill clears his throat. After all he'd seen in life, it takes a lot to shake him, but he is a little off-balance right now. "What did he say?"

"He wanted you to know that he loved you and would do everything in his power to find you. He said he would never stop looking for you." Ruthie pauses. "If there's a chance he could have come to this world—if there's any way possible we could find him—would you be willing to meet with him?"

Bill ducks his head. A veteran of the Iraqi War, a veteran of the war in Afghanistan, currently stationed within shouting distance of Kim Jon Un's North Korea, SSGT Hansen gives in to a moment of tears before nodding. "But it's a damn big world out there, Ruthie. Where do I start?"

"Have you forgotten I'm a reference librarian, Baelfire?" Ruthie grins. "And a Rumplestiltskin to boot." She reaches into her purse for a sheet of paper, which she presents to him.

He examines the page. "These are URLs."

"And this is the age of the World Wide Web. I reserved these domains for you so we can start building web pages. See? Baelfire dot com, baelfire dot org, baelfire dot net. Who says this land doesn't have magic?"

* * *

On the flight back to KCI, Jason stares out into the pale pink clouds. "Do you think he's here, in this world somewhere?"

"If he is, we'll find him."

"What if he doesn't use the Internet?"

"Doesn't matter. Every librarian in the world uses the Internet."

"Just to be on the safe side, let's see if that number we have for that lawyer is still connected. That guy Gold could maybe find him for us. Yeah, I'd like to see the old boy again." Jason chuckles. "Do you remember when I threatened to kill him for creating the curse?"

Ruthie chuckles too. "You were quite a hothead in those days."

"Kill Rumplestiltskin! Like anyone could lay a hand on him." Jason glances to his left, at Mike, who is sound asleep. He smiles fondly. "I got lucky in both worlds."

"Yeah, me too."

"Ruthie. . . you were my true love in the old world, but Mike. . . ."

"—is your true love in this one."

"Yeah. . . . What I can't figure out is, was it a curse the old boy created, or a blessing?"

Ruthie rests her head against the tiny window. "Everything for the children, Leofwin." She closes her eyes, reciting, 'A long and happy life, Rumplestiltskin, and true love.'"

Suddenly she sits up. "Hey, I just had a thought. How do we get Jeremy and Sue to name their firstborn Rumplestiltskin?"

She is a fifty-four year-old poker- and chess-playing reference librarian from Wamego, Kansas, or Fairyland, as you like it; the daughter of Carl and Leona Hansen, the granddaughter of Rumplestiltskin the Seventh, the former wife of Leofwin and best friend of Jason, the mother of Amiria/Anna Marie Hansen, PhD, and Rumplestiltskin X/Jeremy Hansen, BS, the foster mother of SSGT Baelfire/Bill Hansen, and the future grandmother of a child yet to be named.

And the namesake of a man of magic called Rumplestiltskin.


	4. Chapter 4

**EPILOGUE: ELEVEN**

* * *

_Storybrooke, Maine. What a lovely name, Ruthie said; I must take the children there sometime._

"We make a left here," Ruthie says from the back seat of the rented Prius.

"Hey, don't you think it's just a little odd that he turns out to live in the exact same little town as that lawyer who arranged for me and Anna's adoption? Can we stop in and see him too?" Jeremy asks.

"We will," his father replies. "But we have something a bit more pressing to do first." For at last, Jeremy and Anna have been told the whole story, in preparation for this journey, and Jeremy, with some shadow memories of his past lingering, has suspended his disbelief long enough to pack up his infant son and accompany Jason and Ruthie.

As he has done for the past twenty miles, Jason scans the road for directional signs. "Wonder why it isn't on any of the four maps we bought. Not in the GPS system either. Not a sole solitary sign. Are we still on Highway 111?"

"Chill, Dad. So what if we get a little lost? We'll just find a farm and—criminetly!" Jeremy hits the brake, jostling his passengers, who would complain if not for the fact that they see what he does: deep craters punched into burned fields, an overturned Dodge Ram, the shards of torched house. He rolls up his window to block out the lingering smoke before lifting his foot from the brake to move slowly on.

Field after field, house after house, they find blackened corpses of livestock and dogs, trees torn from their roots—and two miles later, a cheery wooden sign welcoming all to Storybrooke.

Ruthie reaches across the infant car seat to grasp Bill's arm. "She told us to expect this."

Bill stares straight ahead. "Expecting it and seeing it are two different things."

The Prius rolls over a hill and enters the village. On the south side of the street, the charred skeletons of quaint little curio shops, restaurants, a school, a library and a bank stand like scarecrows in the noon sun. On the north side, an animal shelter, a restaurant, a B & B, a convenience store, a post office and some business offices, all of them intact but unoccupied, sparkle against the blue sky. A crew of ordinary citizens—some elderly, some children—are hard at work dismantling the south side.

"It's like the tornado that went through Greensberg," Jeremy says.

"It's a war zone."

Another mile on they pass the remains of the hospital. Here Jeremy turns right onto Pine Street, through shady rows of friendly but abandoned cottages, the overgrown lawns strewn with bicycles, toys and cars. In three miles they come to the end of Pine and the end of town, and in front of them lies a three-story gabled building.

As the Prius crunches over the gravel drive, a form appears in the entranceway. Jeremy parks and the form moves from the shadows of the porch into the sunlight at the top of the stairs. An unnatural silence here prompts the family to speak in whispers and to close the car doors with great care. Even the baby keeps soundless, his large eyes blinking in the sun as Ruthie unstraps him from the car seat. And then Ruthie figures out what's wrong here: the trees hold no birds to sing warnings of the humans' approach.

The figure at the top of the stairs lifts a hand in greeting. "Hello. I'm glad you found us all right." She doesn't need to identify herself; the family has spoken to her a half-dozen times via Skype. As they mount the stairs, she gives each of them a hug, with a soft smile and touch on the cheek for the baby. "He's beautiful," she breathes, then apologizes. "I'm sorry; it's just that there are so few babies in Storybrooke." She squares her shoulders and raises her chin. "But that will change. We're rebuilding. We'll be a town again."

"Nature has a way of setting things right again after a war," Bill says.

The woman turns to him and her eyes glisten as she admires the tall, broad-shouldered man in uniform, row after row of multicolored ribbons decorating his chest. Her voice shakes. "Baelfire. He's going to be so proud—" She can't finish her sentence. Ruthie squeezes her arm comfortingly.

"How is he?" Bill manages to ask.

She warns them, "Please remember, it's been a long time since you saw him last, and he's still recovering. Dr. Hopper says there was no permanent damage to his heart; it's just that—well, the battle took all the magic he had and it left him with so much guilt not even Dr. Hopper and Mother Superior have been able to raise him up again." She lowers her voice. "He's been afraid without the magic he'd never find you. When he had the magic he was afraid you'd never forgive him."

Bill stares at the floorboards. "He has nothing to be afraid of."

Belle kisses him on the cheek, then beams at Jason and Ruthie. "Thank you."

Jason peers past the women into the convent. "Where is the old boy?"

"He's resting in the garden, in the back. Fortunately, the garden came out unscathed: it produces enough to feed us—for the moment. By the end of the week, a refrigerated truck will be arriving and the town will have fresh meat and dairy again."

Ruthie nods. "We saw how hard everyone was working as we came through town. You'll get there, Madame Mayor."

The woman laughs. "Just Belle, please. I don't feel very mayorly yet." She holds the door open for them. "Please, if you don't mind, I thought we'd go inside for a minute first. Some iced tea?"

She leads the family into the foyer, where they are greeted by two nuns and the Mother Superior. "We're glad you could come," the latter says. "Your presence will do this town a lot of good."

"You're our first visitors," the nun called Astrid remarks.

"Since the war?"

"Since ever." Astrid and the other nun excuse themselves to prepare the tea.

As the Mother Superior brings the family into the parlor, Ruthie casts a subtle glance at the woman's feet and is pleased to note a lack of high heels. "It's amazing to me. Rumplestiltskin—here—with—"

Mother Superior winks, then waves a hand inviting them to be seated. "With fairies."

"Never thought I'd see the day," Jason says.

"Nor did I. But we have come to an understanding, now that Regina is gone." Mother Superior glances down at her hands. "We came to realize that forgiveness was needed, on both sides."

Astrid and Bernadette return with a loaded tray and serve the tea.

"So you'll stay in Storybrooke, then?" Jeremy asks.

"We're needed here. And frankly, I, for one, prefer a world in which the magic is left to God."

Though he listens politely, Bill's anxious gaze drifts to the windows. Belle takes the hint. She rises, and everyone else follows suit. "If you don't mind being patient just a few minutes longer, Bae—Bill—I'd like you to come with me. Before you see him I think there's a tale you need to hear, about the battle for Storybrooke and your father the warrior."

Reluctantly Bill allows her to link her arm through his. To Ruthie and her family, Belle says, "Mother Superior will take you to him now." Belle escorts Bill to the front porch.

Mother Superior leaves them alone at the edge of the deep garden. Jason takes the baby from Ruthie and advises, "Jer and I will give you a moment alone with him. We don't want to overwhelm him." He passes the baby on to Jeremy.

Ruthie draws in a deep breath. She doesn't want to go alone, because she's about to come face to face with the incontrovertible truth that her life—that is, the 55 years she's lived in this world—is a lie. But then she remembers she is a woman with a heritage and an obligation, and she has carried with her throughout her existence the Dark One's blessing. She grins and marches forth.

His back is to her, his head is bowed; she wonders if he's sleeping. She calls out softly, "A long and happy life, Rumplestiltskin the First, and true love."

His head snaps up.

She comes around to face him and reaches out her hand. He takes it and his face is full of so many emotions she can't decipher them. When he speaks his voice is huskier, less accented than she remembers. "Rumpie." Neither of them can say anything more for a few minutes. Belle has forewarned her; nevertheless, it's disconcerting to find her rock god now requires a cane to walk.

She notices something else too. "Rumplestiltskin! You're so _young_!"

That makes him laugh; clearly, he doesn't feel it, but an outsider would think her the older of the two, for she has lived in this world as he has not; she has aged. She lowers herself, her middle-aged joints protesting, to join him on the wrought iron bench. She clicks her tongue. "Egads! I wanted to say something profound, or at least pithy. After all these years, the little girl in me still wants to impress her namesake."

"You have never failed in that regard, child." He is genuinely amazed to see her; she takes pride in that. "How is it you're here? How did you find me?"

Through Belle's explanations, she understands now about the breaking of the curse. As she looks up at Rumple, the little-girl awe with which she once revered the man of magic leaves her, and in its place she finds respect and affection for the human man. She revels in sharing her accomplishments with him, because he helped to make her the person she became. "A little of your magic, and a little of the world's." She tells him that Belle found her though the websites she had created, and then she tells him that his guidance through her dreams led her back to her family.

"That was not my doing, dearie. I had no magic then; I didn't even remember who I was," he says gently. "It was within you, a residual memory, perhaps. But I'm grateful for it just the same."

He studies her, and she him. In his present form she could have easily passed him on the street without recognizing him: he is entirely human now. His large eyes still draw her in, though now she can see guilt and disappointment in them. She wonders if the pain had always been there, when she was too young to see it. She believes she can take that pain away, but first she has a deal for him.

"There's so much I want to tell you! This has been such an _interesting_ life! And I want to hear your stories, and have a cup of mead and a game of chess. I've missed you so much and most of the time, I didn't even know it."

A little of the guilt leaves his eyes. "You have been happy in this world, then?"

"As happy as I ever was in the old world!"

He leans forward, hopeful. "And love? Did you find true love here?"

She stands and waves at her family, then grasps her namesake's hand again. "Rumplestiltskin, I found _them. _You made it possible."

He turns his head to watch the parade coming his way. He recognizes Jason immediately—"Leofwin!" The other man is unfamiliar to him until she brings him forward.

"Rumplestiltskin, this is Ten."

Jeremy stands gobsmacked. In his Coldplay t-shirt and jeans, a smart phone hooked to his belt, he is a scientist of the modern world who has, in an instant, come to realize just how limited his training has been.

Rumple, chuckling, shakes his hand. "You've grown about six feet since I saw you last."

Disoriented, Jeremy mumbles, "I'm Jeremy now, or Jer."

"And we found Anna Marie—Amiria," Ruthie corrects herself.

Now it's Rumple's turn to be gobsmacked. "Anna Marie. . . Jeremy. . ." He stares at Jason. "And that would make you Jason." He turns to Ruthie. "And you're—" His voice fails him.

"Yeah, how'd you—" Jason begins, but Ruthie interrupts, peering at her namesake closely. "Rumplestiltskin, are you all right? Do you need—"

He waves her concern away and laughs, a from-the-gut laugh that she realizes she has never heard before. "I'm fine, dearie. Allow me to introduce myself properly. In this world, I'm known as Mr. Gold."

Jeremy is the first to regain speech. He slaps his forehead. "Well, now I've heard everything." He hands the baby to Jason, retrieves his wallet from his back pocket, removes a card from it, and rips the card to bits.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm canceling my membership in the Society of Freethinkers, 'cause I have no choice now: I'm a believer."

Ruthie looks at Rumple questioningly, but he shakes his head. "I don't know how it happened."

"'There are more things in heaven and earth,'" Jason mutters.

Ruthie collects herself and takes the baby from Jason. Clearing her throat, she announces, "Rumplestiltskin—Mr. Gold—I have a deal for you." She presents the baby to him. "This is Rumplestiltskin the Eleventh. I ask your blessing for him, in exchange for what we have waiting inside."

He grins and accepts the baby. "Blessings come free, dearie." As Jeremy looks on, flabbergasted, Rumplestiltskin cradles the infant in one arm and with his free hand, touches the child's fuzzy little head. Eleven seems to find this funny and swings his arms and giggles. Rumplestiltskin whispers the required words, then hands the baby back to its father.

"In that case, a job." She surprises herself and her menfolk, but as soon as she blurts the words she knows she's right. "This town needs a library; I'm a librarian. And I understand you have some pull with the mayor."

"Mom, are you sure?" Jeremy asks.

"I'm sure. KC's just a plane ride away."

Jeremy doesn't look convinced, but Jason nods and places an arm around her shoulder. "Just a plane ride. Mike's got a vacation coming in August. . . .I'll bet the fishin's good here." He kisses the top of her head.

Rumple takes it all in but merely says, "It's a deal."

The Rumplestiltskins Nine, Ten and Eleven, along with Leofwin, retreat to the parlor for more tea and conversation with the nuns. Ruthie notices a change in Bill's expression as Belle brings him into the parlor: his face is pale, his eyes haunted. She's seen him like that twice before: after he came home from Iraq and after he came home from Afghanistan. He straightens his dress jacket, which got a little wrinkled on the ride, and with a last hug from Belle and a supportive smile from Jason, he goes out to the garden to meet his father.

Ruthie's heart overflows.

* * *

**RUMPLESTILTSKIN**

Rumplestiltskin studies his hands. He remembers when the skin was taut and golden, not puckered as it is now. He remembers when his fingers would fly of their own accord, sketching the air, vibrating with power. With a single motion they could transport his body across distances, enchant a wedding ring, spin gold from straw, turn a man into a rose or a snail. The hands had incredible skill—but his _talent_, the greater power, was all in the show. As great a mage as he was, he was a greater showman. _Perception is everything_. That was the real magic.

And Gold was a far greater showman than Rumplestiltskin ever was.

But an illusion works only as long as the magician can prevent the audience from coming close, and Rumplestiltskin has come to doubt his choice. Again and again, he has given away to others, free of charge, the most important secret of all: that love trumps magic in every way and every place. But again and again, he has found himself too cowardly to trust his own words, because to unbind himself from his centuries-old devotion to power, he would have to let Bae go, truly and completely.

And then he hears a rustling and he looks up and he realizes that love has just trumped the Dark One, in spite of himself.

"Papa?"


End file.
